


Antiparallel

by AivaRobinson



Series: Double Helix [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mostly Canon Compliant, Mystery Trio, Pre-Series, and dealing with some unaddressed ptsd, but nothing major, double helix, nothing but happy endings here folks, some vague description of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-05-21 14:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14917067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AivaRobinson/pseuds/AivaRobinson
Summary: DNA is made up of two strands, that run antiparallel to each other. The start of one is the end of another, contradictory and bonded together all at the same time. Maybe he and his brother were like DNA, running opposite of each other no matter what they did. It was the only reason Stan could think of for why he was here, and his brother was gone.Mystery Trio!AU. Mostly canon compliant. ...Probably.





	1. Stan Needs a Map

**Author's Note:**

> A/N I've had this idea in the works for a few years now, so buckle up! It's a long ride ahead, but I hope it'll be a fun one. I have no guarantees I'll be updating all that frequently since I'm in school... actually, I can pretty much guarantee I won't have a steady update schedule. ^^; Whoops. But I'll do my best to not leave you guys hanging for too terribly long!  
> Anyway. This takes place about seven years after Stan gets kicked out, so enjoy homeless and very broke Stan. ^^

The wind cut through his ratty jacket like it wasn’t there, biting and bitter and cold. His fingers fumbled over the payphone, the numbers pressed before Stan could even think about it. He slammed the phone back on the receiver as soon as it started to ring, pressing his head against the icy metal. Great. There went his last quarter, and he still couldn’t even muster up the courage to call his brother. It had been over seven years since he ran away (definitely ran away, not kicked out, no, that stung too much to say), and he hadn’t managed to stay on the phone long enough to hear Ford answer once.

Fine. That was fine. It wasn’t like he needed help anyway. He was doing fine on his own - he had made it out of Columbia, hadn’t he? Made it out, and fled so far across the border he wouldn’t be surprised if he came across Canada any day now. At least in Canada they didn’t know him, and it wasn’t like sneaking past border control was a new thing. He definitely wasn’t running because he was scared though. Not at all. He could handle it.

He dug his fingers into his pockets, wincing at the absolute lack of anything they found. A gum wrapper and a peso. He was pretty sure he had some food in his car, if some questionable canned meat counted. Cans didn’t go bad, so it should be fine. And the snow falling could be water. Warmth was another question entirely, but anything was better than the stale heat of a Colombian prison cell, so Stan figured he could just suck it up and deal with it. The feeling in his fingers would come back eventually.

“Gotta find some food,” he grumbled, breath fogging in front of him.

Maybe there was a dumpster around. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it didn’t even count as stealing. Probably. It was just until he figured out a new business strategy and got back on his feet anyway. Maybe Canada wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He just had to figure out a new name to go by.

Stumbling away from the phone, Stan ignored the weakness in his legs and the aching in his lungs. It was just a bug, it would pass. He was sure of it. Wasn’t like he had money for a doctor anyway, and he was pretty sure the whole lot of them were quacks. Food and a good night’s sleep would fix him right up. They seemed to be the general cure for anything.

Ducking into an alleyway, Stan squinted through the gloom before blinking.

Was that...some sort of little man? It looked like one, big red hat and more beard than body. It turned to face him, hissing before scampering off into the dark. Stan rubbed his eyes.

“You’re hallucinating, Stan,” he mumbled to himself. “Get a hold of yourself. Probably just an ugly squirrel, or a bald raccoon or somethin’.”

At least that meant that there was probably edible trash in there. Animals were good at sniffing that sort of thing out - that was how he ended up following a donkey through half of the state of Utah. It was a long story.

Rummaging through the battered tin cans, Stan perked up to find a half-eaten stack of pancakes. Half-eaten just meant half to-be-eaten, and he didn’t hesitate, shoveling them in. Sure, they were cold and stale. But they were also drenched in maple syrup, and that was probably one of the best things he had tasted since he had conned his way into the kitchen of that restaurant back in New Mexico. Or maybe it was Arizona. He was banned from both now, so it didn’t really matter.

Letting out a sigh, he leaned against the building, rubbing sticky hands together to try and get some warmth back in them. He really hoped it was just the lack of streetlights out here that was making them look blue. He stuck then in his armpits just in case, not that there was much warmer. Everywhere seemed to be cold and stiff, and the wind was only picking up.

Stan stifled a cough, making sure his hood was pulled down low enough to cover his ears. As big as they were, they seemed to catch every breeze. Nice when it was hot, but it was just a recipe for frostbite when it wasn’t. Maybe going north in the winter wasn’t the best idea, but he didn’t really have a choice (he still wasn’t running though, no - he was just meandering through the states. He definitely couldn’t still taste blood and feel the ache as his teeth dug into the inside of a locked trunk he thought might be his grave).

Well. There was no point standing here and freezing to death, dwelling on memories that definitely didn’t happen. Hauling himself off of the wall, Stan’s teeth started to chatter loudly together, seeming to make his whole body shake with them. Grinding them together didn’t do anything but make them slam harder together with each tremor, and he gave up, a low pulsing headache building behind his eyes. It was probably stress or some bogus thing like that. He definitely wasn't sick. Definitely. (And he definitely remembered where he parked his car. ...Definitely. He was just sightseeing now, that was all.)

Walking down the street, towards the direction he was pretty sure his car was in, Stan didn’t notice his feet start to stumble and trip over every crack in the pavement. He was more focused on staying upright, clinging stubbornly to walking with a dogged determination that had gotten him through more than a few tough situations. His thoughts grew just as hazy as his vision, the snow building up and his awareness going down. He just kept walking. He’d get there eventually...wherever ‘there’ was. What was he looking for again? A card? He knew card tricks. That might be it. A bar? He liked those too. He was sure he would know it when he saw it though.

Stan was clueless to the fact that he was walking further and further from his car, the only shelter he really had. Even if he had been aware of it, his brain was too muddled from fever and cold to be able to understand it. He didn’t notice when buildings turned into trees, asphalt into dirt, alleys into bushes. He barely even noticed when his legs stopped working, just laying numbly in the snow. It felt oddly warm, and he found just enough control over his body to curl into himself, trying to protect the little kernel of heat in his chest. He thought it would be bad if it went cold. He wasn’t sure though, not anymore, not of anything.

He definitely wasn’t sure if he was hearing a voice when one cut through the wind. It sounded distant, fuzzy, and a small grin quirked at Stan’s frozen face. With ears as big as his, he would’ve thought he could hear that panicked voice better. It could just be a hallucination though, some deep down wish for that quarter not to have been wasted, for that courage to stay on the phone to have stayed. Stan wasn’t sure about that either. But he was sure about one thing, as his eyes slid shut and his body went still:

That voice sounded like home.


	2. Anger Management

   If there was one thing that Stan had learned over the past seven years, it was that having no clue where you were when you woke up only ever led to bad, bad things. He had also learned trunks were bad places to be, he could go without food for a lot longer than he would’ve thought, and donkeys made terrible state guides. It was a long story. But usually, when he was waking up someplace he had no clue how he got to, there was already something bad there. His pockets emptied, his wrists tied, a few new bruises...this time, there was none of that. Nope. There was just warm blankets and something soft beneath him. Softer than anything he had felt in a long time, actually.

    Stan pried gummy eyes open to actually take a look around. It was a nice house, real big and roomy, though it looked half in the process of being moved out of. Or into. Who knew, really. Place looked pretty new though, beneath the boxes and clutter. Looked like the kind of place Ford would like, if Ford were here. Not that it mattered, because he hadn’t seen his brother in seven years, it wasn’t like he was about to walk through the door or anything and -

Ford walked through the door.

Oh sure, he was older, seven years older to be exact, and the circles under his eyes and stubble on his face suggested a lot of late nights, but that was _him._ That was his brother. Somehow, apparently, in the exact same state that Stan had decided to up and pass out in. And now, somehow, he had ended up in Ford’s house. He wasn’t even sure how - all he remembered was pancakes and a dumpster, and then the rest was a hazy blur. All he knew was the sight of him was enough to send Stan falling off of the couch he was on, falling to the floor in a tangle of sprawled limbs and knotted blankets.

    “Stanley!” Ford blurted, and for a moment, the absolute concern in his gaze was enough for Stan to think everything might just be alright. “Be _careful,_ Stanley! What are you doing?”

Stan couldn’t pull his gaze away from Ford’s face. “What am I doing?” he repeated. “How did I get here? Where the heck even is here?!”

“We’re in Gravity Falls, Oregon,” Ford answered, face hardening. “I found you collapsed in the snow in _my_ front yard, which brings me back to my original question - what were you doing?”

Stan tried to focus on pulling himself free of the blanket, going to stand up only to sit back down on the couch (it was definitely sitting, not collapsing, he didn’t care what Ford said). “Just walkin’,” he mumbled, a deep cough ripping through his chest again.

Ford let out a long-suffering sigh. “Look, I’ll drive you to the nearest doctor,” he compromised. “And then you can go back to…‘walking’.”

Stan winced. Yeah, no, he didn’t have the money for that, and he was guessing this wasn’t Ford offering to foot the bill. Clearly, he didn’t even want him around any longer at all - no one wanted a screw-up. “‘S just a bug,” he tried to shrug off. He was oblivious to the clammy pallor of his skin, the fever flush of his cheeks, the glaze of his eyes.

Ford wasn’t. “No, it isn’t,” he insisted firmly. “Can you stand up? There has to be a doctor somewhere nearby, I’m sure-”

“I’m not going to some quack doctor!” Stan snapped, glaring at the floor. He refused to make eye contact, wrapping his arms around himself to try and hide the faint tremors wracking his body.

“Yes, you are,” Ford insisted, reaching out to grab one of Stan’s arms and pull him to his feet.

Stan reached out without thinking, shoving the hand away with enough force that the _smack!_ echoed through the room. His eyes widened when he realized what he did, and he pulled his arm back in, tucking it against his side where he wouldn’t hurt anybody. “Look, Ford, I’m-”

“...What happened to you, Stanley?” Ford asked, voice softening like he was talking to a startled animal, like he was seeing the old injuries and lost weight and dirty clothes for the first time.

“...Nothin’,” Stan mumbled, scuffing his foot against the floor and wishing he sounded more convincing than he did. It was hard to bluff successfully when his throat was sore and his nose was clogged and his head was pounding like his brain was trying to escape his skull.

    “...You’re a worse liar than mom,” Ford offered, eliciting a small snort out of Stan. “Look. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you’re sick. As much as I have every reason to be mad at you, I don’t want you dead. So I’m going to help you up now, and then we’re going to the doctor.”

“I’m not going,” Stan insisted, a stubborn scowl settling firmly on his sunken and pale face. “I dunno what you’re so mad at me about anyway, you have your fancy house here, clearly you ain’t too bad off!”

Ford’s face twisted in anger as he twisted to glare at his twin. “How about the fact that you _ruined_ my life?!” he answered, frustration heating his words. “You cost me my dream school, Stanley! I could have had everything, and you sabotaged me!”

“I ruined _your_ life?!” Stanley repeated in disbelief. “You ruined mine! It was supposed to be me and you forever, you jerk! You’re out here living it up. Do you know where I’ve been, Ford?! I just got out of prison. In _Columbia._ I had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car! You think I’ve been doin’ half as good as you, with your grant money and college degrees? Huh?! You’re the selfish one, hoarding it all to yourself and leavin’ me in the cold!”

    Ford stood up, all twelve fingers balling into tight fists. “Do you even hear yourself?” he demanded. “You brought this on yourself, Stanley, the day you ruined my project and my chances! You-”

He was interrupted by a series of hoarse, rasping coughs that left Stan wheezing for breath, clutching his ribs and just trying to breathe. It was probably for the best - if Ford hadn’t shut up, Stan was about to sock him a real good one right in the jaw.

“...We can talk about this later,” Ford finally said, taking a breath. “You can stay until you’ve recovered some, but then I want you off my property. You can go back to Columbia for all I care.”

He walked out, the door closing behind him. The thud was as final and heavy as the slamming of that car trunk. Stan was left shivering and coughing on the couch, curling in on himself in a way that was sadly reminiscent of kicked puppy. He didn’t notice the similarity, but he didn’t care either. It wasn’t like anyone else did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure Ford and the resulting bickering came as no surprise to anyone - if only these two could get along for once. I wonder what snapping point will finally force them to work together...
> 
> Thank you for reading and your support! If you have any questions for any of the characters, feel free to ask on ask-doublehelix.tumblr.com ^^

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Thanks for reading! You can interact with the story more at ask-doublehelix on tumblr. Kudos, follows, and reviews are always appreciated!  
> ~Aiva


End file.
